Something Wonderful
by darthsydious
Summary: Mycroft questions Molly and Sherlock's relationship. Molly knows just the sort of man she's marrying. Sherlolly. Mycroft being a big brother.


There were some who questioned Sherlock's true feelings for the pathologist. It was a fact she was the only one who he would work with, and, truth be told, worked _well_ with. But those who knew to observe knew that there was more between the Consulting Detective and Molly Hooper than a mere shared interest of her duties at St. Barts.

"But why him?" Mycroft asked. He'd arranged for tea between himself and Molly as soon as he'd heard of the engagement. The ring that once belonged to his grandmother glittered handsomely on her ring finger. She cradled a porcelain cup in her hands, smiling over the rim.

"Do you disapprove?"

"Only if his motives are improper," Mycroft replied. "I know my brother, Doctor Hooper-" she quirked an eyebrow and he sighed, rolling his eyes. " _Molly_ ," he corrected himself. "He is not conventional. You know his habits better than anyone, perhaps as well as me, certainly better than John Watson. He is a selfish, arrogant, prideful man-"

"Not unlike someone else I know," she tilted her chin up.

"He is not romantic," Mycroft went on. "He is not the sort for anniversaries and declarations of affection or even _normal_ conversation, really anything that a normal, stable relationship requires."

"I know," Molly nodded. "But with me, he is- does…sometimes." She flushed, looking at the gold-rimmed cup in her hands. "I know exactly who your brother is, Mycroft. I know he has bad days, and on good days it could still feel like a bad day. He says whatever is on his mind, whether it's polite or not. He rarely says what I'd like him to say. He knows if I've plucked a hair off my chin, if I've had a piece of cake in two days and when I switch deodorants, for pities sake." She shrugged. "It's his way of coping with the world, and…no, it's not pleasant all the time but…" that smile was back. It was a certain smile that reached her eyes, and she seemed to glow from within.

"But?" he prompted.

"But now and again…he'll do something, say something-" she shrugged, smiling beatifically. " _Wonderful_ ,"

"'Wonderful'?" Mycroft repeated.

For a moment, she was lost in a memory. _Coming home to find her apartment fairly buried in flowers. Sherlock fussing with an arrangement, muttering under his breath what he'd wanted to say before turning to her with a start, upset she'd come home before he was ready for her. He tried to push her out the door for five minutes but she wouldn't have it, too shocked at the enormity of the gesture. Every room, every surface covered in flowers, petals. He didn't know much about flowers and fauna, but he knew Molly liked them, so he'd endeavored to choose carefully._

" _It's what men are supposed to do, isn't it?" he asked. "Give the women they love flowers. I expect I've neglected that aspect. Sort of…making up for lost time." There was a flower for every day together, for every favor she'd done for him, a flower for every day he'd been apart from her. A flower for every day he wished he'd kissed her._

" _Those are mostly in your room," he murmured, the tips of his ears turning red. He shuffled and fumbled at first, pacing back and forth as he explained how a match between them would be most beneficial for both of them, and then in a way only Sherlock could and would, demanded she accept his proposal of marriage. She refused until he asked nicely and he did, in the perfectly lovely and meaningful way she knew he was capable of._

Realizing Mycroft was still waiting for a reply, she smiled, excusing herself.

"You'd think it was silly, a waste of time, and don't you dare make fun of him either," she said, quite seriously, and Mycroft found himself promising. "He helps me with my coat, every time," she said. "He gets the door for me, he brings me dinner when I'm working late, and stays to eat with me sometimes, sometimes he just leaves, off to dare and do with John but-" she stifled her laughter, wiping her eyes. "Mycroft he's so happy, and he's happy with me. If you thought he was behaving strangely, he is, perhaps for him. It's because he's _happy_. He's genuinely happy. That doesn't mean it alters who he is. I'd still like to knock him senseless when he's particularly childish," she laughed at that and he indulged her, allowing himself to smile. "He loves me, Mycroft, and I love him. I don't doubt one moment how he feels for me. He-" she hesitated for a moment. "He needs me, needs my love."

Slowly, Mycroft nodded. Molly Hooper's affection for Sherlock had always been apparent. Sherlock's feelings for her had been more of a slow burn, until he'd finally understood how necessary she was in his life. Not merely at Barts, nor her assistance in faking his death. Molly kept Sherlock on steady ground, a gentle reminder of how his actions affected not only himself but others. Sherlock suddenly began to care what he said, even if it was after the fact. Molly was the only woman in the world (aside from Mummy of course) who could make Sherlock apologize and mean it. Mycroft had been the first to notice his brother's agitated state when not in the company of his pathologist. If her whereabouts were unknown, he was irritable, bombastic and impossible to be in the same room with. Heaven help the country when Molly Hooper went on holiday and didn't tell Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft recalled that Sherlock consulted Molly on a number of things, not merely for cases. Topics varied, and while Sherlock was more than capable of forming his own opinion, he seemed to take regular joy out of consulting Molly. That, and to Mycroft's shock, his brother seemed to truly enjoy Molly's company. Anthea had a plethora of CCTV stills of the two of them, proof that Sherlock Holmes could laugh, that he was attracted to Molly, on an intimate as well as intellectual level, and nine times out of ten, he was staring at Molly Hooper's bottom when her back was turned.

Something wonderful indeed. Molly Hooper brought out whatever 'wonderful' qualities remained in Sherlock, and now that he was certain his brother was truly smitten with Molly, Mycroft had no qualms.

Molly left shortly afterward, Mycroft's concern appeased somewhat. He saw her to the door, waiting with her as the car pulled around.

"I've never been needed by anyone, not really," she said, standing in the doorway. Her expression was soft and reflective, and Mycroft could see quite clearly there were no stars in her eyes, and it pleased him. "It's wonderful, you know," she said after a moment. "Being needed." Mycroft didn't know what to say, understanding her meaning and also unsure of how to respond to her.

"It is," he said at last. He pressed her cheek gently, quietly welcoming her to the family.


End file.
